just one kind of folks
by TolkienGirl
Summary: There isn't a book for this. (Tim and Landry talk-or don't talk-in the aftermath of Tim's self-destruction. Post 1x17)(Genfic).


**A/N: I started writing this a long while ago, and never got to finishing it. I know that this is my third Tim and Landry talking literature on the bleachers fic, but I can't help it. I LOVE THEIR FRIENDSHIP. Also, there's a little bit of Harper Lee in here, in tribute to her majestic memory. This is set directly in the aftermath of 1x17, when Walt Riggins leaves.**

Landry isn't stupid. He knows when he's been stood up, because heck, isn't he Matt's best friend? Nothing like the prospect of Julie Taylor to make Matt go AWOL—and here again, nothing like the prospect of _no work_ to make Tim Riggins skip tutoring.

Trouble for Tim is that Landry takes his duty very seriously.

He finds the culprit at the culprit's locker (easy detective work) and stands soldier-still, arms folded intimidatingly, as he awaits Tim's notice.

Tim takes his time.

Finally he lifts an eyebrow and half-turns. "Clarke."

"Riggins," Landry returns, still as grim and imposing as he can be, and then he sucks in a breath between his teeth. Tim's lip is split and swollen; one side of his face is purple with bruises.

"Howdy," Tim says. "I reckon you're here to chew me out."

"I reckon I am," Landry says, but the fight's gone out of him. "Listen, man—what happened to your face?"

Tim says nothing. He slides a textbook into his backpack, still keeping a level, unreadable gaze fixed on Landry, and then he starts sauntering down the hall.

Landry follows.

"So what'll it be today?" Tim asks. No excuses, no explanations. It could be that he doesn't want to talk about it, and that's likely a piece of it, but he's also like this all the time. "You got some great American novel to share with me?"

Landry bristles under the sarcasm, but he's not going to lose his cool before he gets to the bottom of this. "You missed our sessions," he says. "No pass, no play. Remember?"

"Yeah, I remember."

"OK, then."

"OK, then." Tim parrots, mocking. "We goin' out to the bleachers?"

"Sure." It's a nippy day out, but Landry isn't going to argue.

Last time they were out here, under a flat gray sky, Landry talked about book reports and George and Lennie. Now, he's got a book in his hand— _To Kill a Mockingbird_ —but he doesn't know what to say.

"You gonna read to me or not, Shakespeare?" Tim asks. His usual mocking smirk pulls a little too much at that split lip

"I am," Landry says, trying not to wince himself. It sure looks painful. He cracks open the book and begins to read, feeling a little foolish. "When he was nearly thirteen, my brother Jem got his arm badly broken at the elbow," Landry reads. "When it healed, and Jem's fears of never being able to play football were assuaged, he was seldom self-conscious about his injury."

Tim perks up a bit, in spite of himself. "This a football book?"

"No," Landry says. He's a mite regretful, and he oughtn't to be. No need to apologize for a classic. "It's about—it's about the law."

"Swell," Tim says, deflating. He's lost in thought, and his elbows are resting on his knees. He looks tired, and probably in pain, and Landry doesn't know how to tell him that a good book, a good story, a good escape—it's just what he needs.

And then it comes to him. _There isn't a book for this._

He shuts the book hard, stuffs it down in his pack. Tim stares at him, silent. It's not easy to tell if he's surprised.

"You need to talk about anything?" Landry asks, dusting his hands over his knees.

Tim shakes his head. Landry wonders if he's angry. After all, asking Tim Riggins to talk about feelings—or whatever—is almost a literal example of poking the bear. Truth be told, Landry would almost rather face a grizzly than the Panthers' fullback.

But Landry's no quitter, and he ploughs ahead. "It's a strange time of life," he says. "We're supposed to be a lot of things, but sometimes we want to be nothing, and sometimes we want to be everything. High school is pretty barbaric, if you ask me."

He expects Tim to say, _"I didn't,"_ but Tim's still mum. He's shifted, hands curled around the edge of the bleacher, hair blowing in his eyes. Tim Riggins is a lot of things, most of which nobody cares about, and Landry's starting to think that _a listener_ is one of them.

Landry would give a lot right now to know the what and why. The closest he's got is that there's a rumor that sometimes Tim Riggins goes and gets the crap beat out of him for no reason whatsoever.

Landry thinks the last part's a lie. Everybody does everything for a reason.

 _There's no book for this._ No book, but somehow—Landry gets it. He's a freckle-faced nerd who burns to a tomato-y crisp at the first sign of sunlight. And Landry has his refined tastes—in music and literature, and someday, people'll take notice—but for now he knows that, for what it's worth, he's just another snub-nosed kid.

People think things, first time they see you. They keep thinking those things, until it might as well be scripture.

And that's just Landry.

He can't imagine what it's like to be Tim Riggins.

When everyone in the whole town believes something about you, it's not too far a stretch to start believing it yourself.

Landry prides himself on having an ear to the grapevine, or whatever the particular metaphor may be, and he knows what goes round about Tim Riggins. Not just the smart-mouthing and the fighting and the drinking, but the way he lost his best friend and then stole his best friend's girl. The world would look at Tim Riggins and the bruises up and down his face, would whisper nasty things that almost sounded like _he deserves it. He's asking for it._

"The world's an awful place," Landry says, voice sounding almost desperate and getting carried away a bit by the breeze. "But then I think, that's just the people in it, you know? Cause Texas is big and wide and—" he flails his hand outward—"It's vast. It's colossal. And there's nothing awful about that, even if it's a lot to take it in. So it must be the people, I reckon." He takes a breath. "But then the people, they're not all so bad. We're all people. So what is it? What makes the world so awful?"

"Damned if I know," Tim said, quiet. Tired.

Landry thought of saying, _"Sure there's nothing you want to talk about?"_ but it doesn't seem right. So instead, what he says is, "I don't think you deserve it."

Tim looks at him, and then he doesn't, and then he gets up, not angry, just gone. Down the bleachers, walking along the field and back towards the school.

And Landry thinks, for all that Tim strides slow and easy, it looks an awful lot like running.

(There isn't a book for this.)


End file.
